


The Spymaster

by WeeCoconutFlakes



Series: Sheaf's Chronicles [9]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 23:12:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12994587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeCoconutFlakes/pseuds/WeeCoconutFlakes
Summary: An agent of King Duskstone, known only as The Spymaster, is sent to destroy the tattered remnents of the ancient Ganden Monastery.





	The Spymaster

A drow scanned the horizon of the dunes, a heavy cloth blocking the sand blowing into his face. His eyes were covered, a blindfold hiding his unseeing eyes from the world. He listened in to the shifting sands and focused his instincts to seek any disturbances. When he was satisfied, he continued on his journey.

The desert he now crossed was the same that isolated his destination from his kingdom. It wasn’t difficult for one person or perhaps a team of talented horsemen to cross, but it cut off the small town of Naradno from any real contact with its king.

The drow had only one goal in mind, the mission he was given by his king: destroy the final remnants of the rebellious Ganden Monastery.

He recalled how he came in service to this lord. His oldest memory was waking up in a cold and quiet cave, without eyesight or knowledge of where he was. He made his way out, and found himself in a city called High Stone. His only directive at that time was to find safety and power, and so he attempted to find favour with the king there. He quickly impressed the man, and destroyed every challenge set for him. The drow was very quickly made Duskstone’s Royal Spymaster, the silent instrument of the throne.

He had no name. Spymaster was the only title he knew. He carried out his missions with deadly precision.

Such was the current mission. After several days of trekking the sandy wastes, he arrived in a place green and luscious. A small, silent, village. Strewn with rubble, the weight of the empty village fell upon the Spymaster’s shoulders; he quickly dismissed the feeling.

At the top of the gently sloping mountain was a pile of ruin, the once impressive Ganden Monastery. Tattered banners and shards of once beautiful works of art strew the field before him. He crept closer to the ruins, knowing that his targets took refuge in its destroyed walls.

He froze when he heard movement, shrinking into the shadows. He dodged out of the way as a knife flew through the air, piercing the wall behind him. He gracefully slipped through the shadows at its source, bringing a dagger to a fur-covered neck.

“Impressive,” said the voice of a tabaxi, with a heavy accent. “I recognize those moves. Could it be, you are my student?”

The Spymaster had heard enough to know this must be Winded Lace, one of his targets. He moved to plunge the dagger into her throat, but suddenly she had escaped his grasp. He adopted a fighting stance, pulling another dagger from its sheath. He felt a movement behind him and struck toward it, dodging the attack Lace sent his way. He rolled behind her and grabbed her again, pressing her into the ground.

“Yes,” she said again. “You are my student. Why do you do this, I wonder?” She thought, both about her escape and the identity of her assailant, then moved to disappear once more. She was shocked, when rather than freeing herself into the shadows, she felt cold steel stab into her spine.

Her eyes widened as she finally recognized her attacker. “It is you... why?” The words escaped her lips as life faded from her eyes.

The Spymaster looked up. He did not recognize the tabaxi, nor did he care that she thought she knew him. The mission was not over. He crept deeper into the ruins, and smelled a sweet, fresh smell. In the midst of the destroyed stone, a garden had been built. It appeared empty, but the Spymaster was wiser than to believe it was. He let out quiet click from his lips, the echoes giving him a clear picture of the room. It seemed empty, no movement at all, just a garden with a statue stood in the corner.

He struck at this statue. He knew of this target, Quaria Ichagon, master of the elements. She was hiding in the stone from him, assuming he’d not notice. What she had truly done was trap herself. As his blades ran through her body, precisely targeted at the crevices in her stone armour, her eyes widened, blood gushing from under the rock. She fell to the ground, her armour crumbling off of her body. She said nothing, and her life faded.

Immediately after his attack, the Spymaster heard movement behind him. He quickly turned to attack its source, but as he looked up he was faced with a fist rocketing toward his face. The Spymaster, for the first time, was caught off-guard. He was sent to the floor, quickly recovering and springing to his feet. As soon as he rose, however, a kick struck him in the jaw. He attempted to slip into the shadows and recover control, but he was corralled away. This target understood his abilities, a concerning the Spymaster. He realized he was facing his final target: Ku Zaon. Another flurry of attacks left the drow subdued, and as he slowly lost consciousness, he heard his target’s voice.

“Why have you come here, Gorm?”

The Spymaster woke up in a chair. He was bound at the feet and hands, and could tell the rope was somehow magical. He listened around the room, and noticed Zaon standing, waiting for him to awaken. He planned to play dead as he searched for an escape plan, but his captor spoke.

“There you are. Why have you come here, Gorm? Why did you kill Masters Lace and Ichagon?”

“Why do you call me that?”

“Your… name. You’ve forgotten. Something felt missing in you, of course. But what has taken your memories, I wonder.” Zaon sat down, and faced the Spymaster. “Tell me why you’ve come here, and perhaps I can help you.”

“I will tell you nothing.”

“Gorm, I will find what I want whether you tell me or not, this is simply much easier; please tell me.” The Spymaster was silent. Zaon shook his head, and stood. “I have matters to attend to. When I return, I hope you will reconsider.” He left the room, and the Spymaster was alone.

First he took stock of what remained on his person. However, it seemed his target had been thorough in his search. Only his clothes remained. Even the needles sewn into them were taken. So where? As far as he could tell, they were not in this room. He focused on the rope. After much thought, the rope’s effects became known to him. It would only unravel at the command on Zaon, an act that seemed unlikely. Clearly, he would need to find another way out of them. For now, he would bide his time.

Zaon returned, his tattered robes trailing behind him. “Have you decided to let me help you?” Once again, the Spymaster was silent. A downcast look fell upon Zaon’s face, and he shook his head. “I will need to find what took your memories, then.” He pulled books from his robes, and started searching through their pages. After a time, his eyes widened. “Of course. It should have been obvious.” He went to the Spymaster and removed his blindfold, and stared deep into his eyes. “Yes. That’s it.”

He replaced the blindfold and sat down. “You went to the Underdark after your training. I believe some sort of illithid has taken your memories.”

The Spymaster didn’t react, and Zaon continued. “You were a noble man, once, Gorm. You went to free the slaves down there. Why have you changed? What set you astray?” Once again, the Spymaster did not respond. Zaon let out a heavy sigh, and closed his eyes. “I must make you remember.”

He stood and took the Spymaster’s shoulders. “You are Gormon Sarafen. You are a student of Ganden. You were my friend.” He stared into the Spymaster’s face for any sign of recognition. He found nothing. “You lived here, trained here, for years! This is your home, Gorm!” The Spymaster again gave no sign of recognition.

The Spymaster resisted showing it, but it felt like bombs in his head. White hot flashes of near-recognition burned through his mind. Zaon’s insistent words cut through him. They seemed to fill holes in his mind. He fought the feeling, and remained stoic. Eventually, Zaon gave up. He lit two torches, one on either side of the Spymaster, and left to sleep for the night.

The torches bothered the Spymaster. With them in place, there were no shadows for him to slip through, and no way to escape the ropes. Through the night he tried idea after idea to extinguish the torches, and let the night’s shadow aid his escape, but to no avail. Eventually, he quit, and let himself fall into his restful trance.

For a week this continued, Zaon trying everything he could to force the Spymaster’s memories back, and the Spymaster fighting it, until he could try to escape at night. The teasing of memories was like torture to the Spymaster, his mind painfully fighting to place the thoughts given to him. Every night he became more and more desperate to escape the ruins, until, at the end of the week, a rainstorm began.

Zaon had long been asleep, when the first drops started to fall. The Spymaster heard them immediately, and focused on them. They started to drip through the shattered walls and crumbled roof. At first, the Spymaster considered ways to put out the torches with the water, when he noticed the roof was beginning to crack. The rain soon became a torrential storm, wind whipping and water pouring from the sky. Thunder cracked as the Spymaster realized he may be in serious danger. A large section of the roof fell to the floor, and the Spymaster hurled his chair away to avoid being crushed. Water pooled on the floor as dust was shaken from the ancient walls.

The wall behind the Spymaster cracked, as a tree was uprooted and flung into the deteriorating stone. The wall collapsed under its weight, falling toward the Spymaster. He watched the wall as it fell, carrying the torch with it. Closer and closer it came to crushing him, but the torch was extinguished first, it’s fire quenched in the pooled water. As soon as he was in shadow, he slid through it, teleporting to the hallway outside. He ran through the collapsing corridor, keeping himself hidden in the shadow.

There he found Zaon, finally shaken from his sleep, scanning the hallway. The darkness betrayed him, however, and almost instantly the Spymaster was behind him, a shard of glass stabbed deep into the monk’s back. Zaon’s eyes widened, and he coughed up blood.

“Gorm… so this is how Ganden dies. By none other than its own hands.” He struggled to draw in breath. “You’ve been poisoned, Gorm. Infected with disease, which you now spread. My words may not reach you, but if any of you is left, remember me, and don’t forget yourself. You can be cured yet.” Then he let out a final breath, and his body relaxed. The Spymaster let his body fall, and searched the room he was sleeping in. There he found his gear, which he quickly donned. He threw a hood over his head and a cloth over his face and stepped out into the stinging rain, beginning the trek back to High Stone.

A heavy weight fell upon the Spymaster’s shoulders, one he could not dismiss.


End file.
